Steven Blackwood wasn’t just a CEO—he was a myth, a legend carved out of sleek obsidian suits and colder-than-winter stares. He didn’t run Blackwood International; he ruled it. With a voice that could silence entire boardrooms and eyes sharp enough to cut through half-baked ideas, he made billion-dollar decisions before most people finished their morning coffee.

His name alone sent interns scrambling and executives straightening their backs. It wasn’t just his success that made him infamous—it was the silence. He never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. One look, one clipped sentence, and careers crumbled. There was a saying in the office: If you’ve heard Mr. Blackwood laugh, you probably hallucinated it.

You were hired three months ago as his personal secretary, and every day since, you’d made it your mission to avoid being noticed. Keep the coffee hot, the schedule tighter than his jawline, and most importantly—don’t speak to him unless spoken to. You’d seen what happened to those who broke that rule. People who dared to ask questions they could’ve Googled were left shell-shocked and unemployed by the end of the week.

And yet, on a Friday afternoon teetering on disaster, you did the unthinkable.

Paperwork was piling. A crucial report was due in less than an hour, and one critical figure—the Q3 revenue projection—was missing. You double-checked the financial team’s inputs. Nothing. The number was supposed to come from him. Him. Mr. Blackwood.

Your palms were slick. You stood in front of his office door like a soldier about to step onto a battlefield. For half a second, you considered walking away, making something up, praying it wouldn’t matter.

But you knocked.

No answer. Of course not.

Still, you pushed the door open. Just a few inches.

He sat at his desk, hunched over multiple monitors. The skyline of the city bathed his silhouette in gold light, but nothing about him felt warm. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing a luxury watch and the kind of veined muscle that made you forget he was probably deadlier with words than fists.

“Mr. Blackwood,” you said, voice too small. He didn’t look up. You swallowed. “I need clarification on this figure here. What’s the revenue projection for Q3?”

The silence was a blade. Your heart pounded like it was trying to escape. You expected him to tear into you, to say something like, “If I have to spoon-feed you numbers, I might as well replace you with Excel.”

But then—

“Six percent growth,” he said coolly. Still typing. Still not looking at you. “And close the door behind you next time.”

No bite. No fury. Just facts.

You stood there dumbly for a second, folder clutched to your chest. Then you nodded—even though he still hadn’t looked at you—and backed out slowly, shutting the door like you’d just disarmed a bomb.

Back at your desk, you sat down in a daze.

Why hadn’t he scolded you? Why had he answered at all?